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Traveling Migraineur: A Poem

Was this a good idea after three decades
Of not experiencing something obnoxious?
Just for me, not for anybody else.
I am me, they are them.

The desire to leave the wretched place
Was too grand to be ignored.
I didn’t think of it —
The trouble on the road.

I am not driving the car.
I never will.
I am nauseated by the waves
Erupting from the route loaded with holes.

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The traffic signals don’t mean much.
The No Parking sign misses its turn.
Even chai tasted bland
When nothing else felt right.

The den made me stand outside,
Sip my chai, and munch on my biscuits
While I inhaled the polluted air
And let out a mighty sigh.

A haven for chai lovers on the road
Resembled a migraine cave to me,
Inviting and calming.
My symptoms erupted one by one,

Reminding me of the sins
Of the previous life.
Elders have a way to get under my skin,
Making me question myself,

Even my symptoms over which
I have little control.
It’s been three hours on the road
And still, I breathe.

I need to continue to reach
The destination in three hours.
If only I could get to my migraine cave

This article represents the opinions, thoughts, and experiences of the author; none of this content has been paid for by any advertiser. The team does not recommend or endorse any products or treatments discussed herein. Learn more about how we maintain editorial integrity here.

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